


Take the Easel Way Out

by legendarydesvender (svensationalist)



Series: Klance Week 2k16 [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Art School, Friends to Lovers, Klance Week 2016, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 06:43:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7674088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/svensationalist/pseuds/legendarydesvender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Oh no, he’s hot,</em> Lance thinks while he’s dying.</p><p>(Pidge elbows Lance sharply a little while later. “You’re not dying, dumbass,” they whisper.  “Pay attention, the pose started.”) </p><p>***</p><p>Written for klanceweek day 1, “Red/Blue”.  Art class AU where Lance can’t focus because one of the new life drawing models is too attractive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take the Easel Way Out

**Author's Note:**

> This was vaguely inspired by my own experiences in figure drawing sessions and classes, though I was never distracted by naked people like Lance will be. I've only taken continuing education courses for art, so that's why the class atmosphere is a bit more casual in this fic.
> 
> Content warnings: There are mentions of dicks, but nothing explicit. Cussing.  
> Character notes: Lance is bisexual and has ADHD; Pidge is asexual and non-binary (they/them). Feel free to headcanon anything else.

At first glance, the new model isn’t very interesting apart from the mullet. Lance barely spares them a second look, preoccupied with grabbing supplies from his portfolio and bag. He sets up his work area hastily, nearly squashing his hand while adjusting the easel. “I swear these things are trying to murder us,” he mutters, clipping large sheets of paper to the wooden death trap.

“Well, that’s the only thing they can do consistently,” Pidge says from their seat on Lance’s left. They’re slouched in their chair and spinning a pencil in their hand, bored from waiting for class to begin. “I’d probably kill some shitters too if they put stupid graffiti on me.” They tap a weird Sharpie caricature of Sonic making out with Squidward on their own easel to prove their point. “It was only a matter of time before they took revenge.”

“Pidge… how much sleep did you get?” Hunk asks, leaning back so he can peer around Lance and squint at their shorter classmate.

“Pshhhh… who needs _sleep_.”

“Right. You didn’t sleep at all. Gotcha.”

Lance tunes out the rest of his friends’ conversation — it’s one he’s heard many, many times before — and grabs his pencils and utility knife. He wriggles his way out of the haphazard cluster of chairs, easels, bags, and stray limbs to reach the trashcan at the front of the room. It’ll be a hassle to return to his seat later, even though it’s in the front row, but Lance learned from personal experience that sharpening his pencils while distracted by Hunk and Pidge leads to broken lead at the best and sliced thumbs at the worst.

The sound of the blade whittling away at the pencil wood is relaxing. Lance smiles to himself.

“All set to go, Keith?” Coran says from his desk, distinct voice carrying despite not being very loud.

 _I guess the new guy’s name is Keith_ , Lance notes absentmindedly, sharpening another pencil. He tries to keep track of all the models’ names, even though it’s difficult; it seems like basic courtesy to people he sees naked for a few hours a week. Allura’s and Shiro's names were relatively easy to remember, paired with their embarrassingly good looks, but Lance hopes he doesn’t forget Keith’s. He can’t just start referring to him as ‘mullet man’ or something. His mother taught him _manners_.

Lance makes it back to his seat by the time Coran starts writing the evening’s agenda on the whiteboard. Keith is sitting on the edge of the raised wooden platform at the front of the room, dressed in a plain black t-shirt and slightly oversized sweatpants, and doing some stretches before suffering for the rest of the night. Lance presumes it’s suffering, anyway — he can barely sit in the same position for a minute, let alone an hour. Just the thought of it makes him cringe in sympathy.

“Alright, everyone!” Coran exclaims, lightly tugging on his moustache. “We’ll be starting off with gestures as usual, before doing extended poses. Today we’re going to be doing two-minute gestures. First minute, use a red pencil to loosely sketch the figure, then for the second, use a blue pencil to refine the form. Remember — keep your arms nice and loose! No stiff shoulders or pencil death grips! Everyone got that?” Coran beams when the entire class nods with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

“How many poses?” Keith asks, adjusting the small space heater on the platform so that it’s closer to the middle.

Coran snaps his fingers. “Oh right, yes of course — five will suffice! Do you want me to time it, or are you fine doing it yourself?”

“I can do it,” Keith says. Then he strips nonchalantly as if there aren’t more than a dozen people staring at him. Or one particular person in the front row making an awkward noise like he’s choking on his own spit.

 _Oh no, he’s hot_ , Lance thinks while he’s dying.

(Pidge elbows Lance sharply a little while later. “You’re not dying, dumbass,” they whisper. “Pay attention, the pose started.”)

 

* * *

 

It's been weeks, and Lance still thinks he's dying, no matter what Hunk or Pidge tell him. The models rotate every session so the class gets practice drawing different body types, but Allura, Shiro, and stupid-Keith-with-his-stupid-mullet appear the most regularly. It means that Lance has sketched more mullets in this term than he has his _entire life_ , and he's offended that his sketchbook has been permanently ruined by their omnipresence. Definitely offended by the mullet, and _not_ constantly distracted by Keith’s muscles or obnoxiously beautiful face.

“Lance… Are you okay?” Hunk pokes his friend with his paintbrush. There's no response; he pokes again a little bit harder. His efforts remain fruitless, so he shrugs at Pidge.

“He's probably thinking about Keith again,” Pidge says, not looking away from their watercolour landscape assignment.

Lance startles, almost dropping an open tube of paint on his pants. “No I'm not!” he says too quickly to be convincing, twisting the cap back on his burnt sienna before he drops it again. The answering silence makes him squirm, so he elaborates unprompted. “Well… okay, I _was_ thinking about him, just a little, but it was a mental critique of his hairstyle choices and how his face is wasted on a hair travesty like that.”

Hunk carefully paints a tree and graciously pretends that his best friend didn't just give Keith a very convoluted compliment. “Right. Definitely wasted.” (He also graciously pretends that he doesn't hear Pidge mutter ‘wasted’ under their breath and use their phone to play an audio clip from _Grand Theft Auto_. Nor does he wonder how they did that so quickly.)

“What kind of model has a _mullet_ ,” Lance grumbles, absentmindedly adding a wash on his watercolour paper for the sky. He doesn't notice that there's no actual paint on his brush. “How did Coran even find a model with a mullet? _Why_ did Coran even find a model with a mullet?”

“Shiro introduced Keith to him,” Pidge says dryly. “I told you last week.”

Lance squints at Pidge suspiciously. “How do you know that?” he asks, still diligently applying plain water to his paper.

Hunk notices. “Uh. Lance.”

“Not now Hunk, I need to know how Pidge knows that Keith’s presence is all Shiro’s fault.”

Pidge looks at Lance incredulously. “Because Shiro said so himself during break last time he was modelling?”

“Oh.” Lance turns to Hunk who nods in confirmation. “Why didn't I notice?”

Hunk knows the answer to this one. “You were hyperfocusing on your sketchbook and muttering under your breath about something while fidgeting with your _X-Acto knife._ It was kinda creepy, dude. The, uh, knife part, not the focusing part,” Hunk adds, not wanting Lance to feel self-conscious about something he can't always control.

“I remember that now.” Pidge points their brush at Lance. “You kept clicking your knife while blushing at your sketches of _Keith_.”

Lance wants to sink into the grassy hill they're sitting on and disappear; if he wasn't dying _before_ , Pidge was going to kill him if they kept talking.

Of course, Pidge continues. “I'm not even going to try and pretend that I understand your internal dilemma and fixation on Keith’s _hair_ of all things. But it's been months, and your tomato impression every time the poor guy takes his clothes off in front of you is getting a little bit old. If seeing him naked is getting too distracting, just pretend that his dick is a sad hotdog.”

Lance chokes on his spit. “Pidge, what the _fuck._ ”

Pidge shrugs. “I'm just saying that flaccid penises look like sad hotdogs, alright?”

“Why would you ruin hotdogs for me like this,” Hunk says mournfully.

 

* * *

 

The words ‘sad hotdog’ are now permanently ingrained in Lance’s mind and he lowkey wants to kill Pidge. But ‘sad hotdog’ is a less distracting intrusive thought than internally waxing poetic about Keith’s abs, so he'll forgive them _this_ time.

(When Lance accidentally says “sad hotdog” _out loud_ to Keith’s face during break one day, he takes back every charitable thought he ever had for Pidge.)

 

* * *

 

Lance doesn’t expect to run into Keith at a _Timmies_ of all places. It’s strange to see him in such a normal setting; while posing, Keith projects a much more intimidating impression than the crabby, half-asleep man in a hoodie currently waiting in the beverage line. Lance still feels irrationally nervous, but there’s an undertone of relief when faced with visual proof that his maybe-crush is a normal human. “G-Good morning, Keith,” Lance mumbles shyly, shuffling to wait in the normal line.

Keith turns around. “Uh… good morning?” He looks at Lance oddly.

 _Oh. He doesn’t recognize me._ Lance isn’t sure how to feel about that. “Um… I’m one of Coran’s life drawing students,” he fumbles over his words, trying to explain that he isn’t a _complete_ stranger that is overly friendly even by Canadian standards.

A flicker of recognition brightens Keith’s eyes. “Oh yeah, you’re that guy who keeps making funny noises in the front row.”

Lance suspects that his face is doing the tomato thing Pidge talked about. He wishes Keith doesn’t remember him now, though he supposes he should be grateful that the ‘sad hotdog’ incident isn’t mentioned. “Y-Yep, that’s me!” he says, chuckling nervously. “Special student supplier of spontaneous strange sounds.” _That doesn’t even make sense_ , he panics, alarmed by his traitorous mouth. _Somebody save me from myself_.

Keith just blinks very slowly. Then it’s his turn to order, so he shrugs and doesn’t comment on Lance’s alliterative nonsense.

It takes all of Lance’s willpower not to dive out the door once Keith’s back is turned. He can already imagine Pidge singing ‘mmm whatcha say’ at him, he can’t give them even more ammunition. Besides, he has to get their coffee too, and he fears for his life if he prevents them from attaining sufficient caffeination.

“— help you, sir?”

“What?” Lance’s head whips upwards to see the politely smiling employee at the cash register. “O-Oh, uh…” He struggles to remember Pidge’s breakfast request. “Can I have two Boston cream donuts, a large black coffee, and a medium blub — bubble — _double._ Double! Medium double double.” His face feels like it’s on fire.

“Was… that two medium double doubles, or just one?”

“Just one!” Lance _squeaks_ , and he wonders if Tim Hortons sells any coffee sizes large enough to drown himself in. He manages to pay without humiliating himself any further and slinks off to the side, out of the way, where he can wait for his order and die in peace.

Unfortunately, Keith is also standing there holding his coffee cup. He looks at Lance pensively, and it’s an unfairly good look on him, even with the mullet. “Can I ask you a weird question?”

“Uh, sure?” Lance pauses. “I might not answer though, depending on what it is,” he adds hastily, forever paranoid about conversational loopholes after knowing Pidge for years.

Keith snorts in amusement. “It’s not _that_ weird. I was just wondering if… my modelling is okay? I’ve never done it before, so I’m not sure if Coran is just being nice.”

“I think it’s fine,” Lance says, trying not to sound as flustered as he feels. “I mean — it’s good. R-Really good? Your poses are always fun because they’re so dynamic? And… kinda angry, to be honest, like you want to kill somebody — uhhh, I mean — it makes for good drawing practice.” He quickly grabs his coffee and donuts when they’re ready, before he says anything stupider. “I couldn’t tell you were new at modelling,” he admits. It’s almost _insulting_ to his pride (what remains of it, anyway) that a complete amateur nearly kills him every time his hips are visible. They’re nice hips, but it’s the principle of the matter.

“Shiro gave me the idea, since I need the money.” Keith glances at his phone and frowns. “Uh… sorry, I have to go. Bye. Thanks.”

“Wha… you’re welcome…?” Lance’s voice trails off because Keith is already leaving. He stands there in confusion until an impatient text from Pidge reminds him of why he’s even at Tim Hortons in the first place.

“Look on the bright side,” Pidge says later, after eating their breakfast and listening to Lance recount his embarrassing morning. “At least you didn’t use any of those godawful pick-up lines you kept making up back in high school.”

Lance moans, covering his face with his hands. “ _Ugh_. Please don’t remind me.”

“What was one… oh right, ‘gurl you’re so fine that you’d leave an impression on Monet’?”

“ _Dammit_ Pidge, I said ‘ _don’t_ remind me’.”

“You also said ‘I need to get me a piece of that Pic- _ass-_ o’ at prom —’”

“ _Pidge_!”

 

* * *

 

Lance almost wept in relief when Coran announced that they’d be starting portraits. Portraits mean that models can keep their clothes on, which means that he’ll stop sounding like a dying seal in front of Keith. It’s already embarrassing and awkward enough to be slightly smitten with a life drawing model that’s only naked for his job; he doesn’t need to make things even _more_ awkward and embarrassing by making weird noises.

 _‘Special student supplier of spontaneous strange sounds’_ , Lance’s brain quotes helpfully, and he wants to punch himself in the face.

Keith doesn’t model until the end of the week; by then, Coran wants everyone to use coloured pencils on either burgundy or cobalt blue Canson paper. Lance picks the red when he knows Keith is coming because he has extras left over from the last term, and because he privately thinks warm colours suits the model more. He clips the paper to his rickety death easel and carefully peels the label off it.

“Where’s Pidge?” Lance asks Hunk. Their friend is nowhere to be seen, even though class is almost starting.

“They’re picking up their dad and Matt at the airport tonight, remember?” Hunk squints at his pencil case, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth as he rummages through its contents. “Ah fudge, I left my carmine red at home.”

“ _No hay problema_ , we can share.” Lance shoots Hunk some cheesy fingerguns. He hears a snort from elsewhere in the room — _fuck, I hope it’s not Keith_ — and lets his hands drop down on his lap. “You need any other ones?” When Hunk shakes his head, Lance says, “Though it’s nice that he’s saving us some money by only requiring like, twelve of them, I wish Coran would let us use more… neutral colours, sometimes.”

“But you _like_ using all the weird colours,” Hunk points out, blinking in confusion.

“Yeah, but…” Lance flushes, and mumbles quietly, “We’re drawing Keith today. W-What if he doesn’t like it?”

Hunk steeples his fingers. “Okay, first of all: it technically only matters if _Coran_ likes it, because he’s the one grading us. Secondly: you’re awesome and this’ll look great, so I’m sure our main mullet man is gonna like it too. Cool? Cool.”

Lance sniffles emotionally. “You’re the best. You’re too good for me. You’re my one true bro.”

“Aww, bro...”

“ _Bro_.”

Coran interrupts their weird call-and-response by announcing that the class is beginning. “Ahem! If you could all gather ‘round my desk for the demonstration, that would be spectacular!” He waits for his students to extricate themselves from their seats before asking Keith to pose.

Though Coran draws quickly and explains his procedure surprisingly concisely, Lance’s attention constantly wanders anyway. During the many silent intervals, he looks at Keith’s profile more than he watches Coran. It’s a little strange to see the model sitting so… peacefully; his poses are usually more complicated, so Lance takes the chance to commit a serene Keith to memory. He’s grateful that Pidge is absent, since he just _knows_ they’d be making fun of him.

Lance almost misses his cue to go back to his seat because _wow_ , he never noticed how nice Keith’s eyelashes are. Luckily, Hunk subtly tugs on Lance’s elbow to direct him back to their spots. (“ _Bro._ ” “Bro.”) Lance is a little too tall to hide behind his easel even while sitting down, but he tries anyway so he can keep admiring Keith’s face.

Keith has his head propped up with his hand, elbow on one leg while the other leg is crossed, and he’s absorbed with whatever he’s looking at on his phone. His eyebrows are slightly furrowed, and it’s _adorable_ —

“No, you’re not dying,” Hunk says patiently, preemptively refuting a claim he’s heard too many times, and trying not to sigh as Lance fails at breathing again.

“Ah, Keith?” Coran says suddenly, busy adjusting the lights angled at the model’s platform.

Keith looks up from his phone. “Yes?”

“Do you mind tying your hair up? That would make it easier for everyone to draw your face, especially the students looking at your profile. The lighting will look better as well.”

“Sure.” Keith fishes a rubber band out of his pocket and deftly ties his mullet into a ponytail.

“Thank you, that’s much better!” Coran gives Keith an enthusiastic thumbs-up, seemingly oblivious to the fact one of his students almost fell out of his chair.

(“Hunk, I’m dead, I got killed by a mullet, remember me as I was, don’t tell Pidge —”

“Okay yeah, you _are_ turning a bit blue in the face. You gonna be okay, man?”)

Lance is grateful as always that Coran plays music during their classes; the sound of bossa nova drifting through the room steers his mind away from mental crises and calms him down enough to get some work done. He lightly sketches guidelines in peach, perusing the handout given to the class to check whether he’s doing the proportions correctly. Though he spends a lot of time studying Keith — too much time, probably — it’s his first time seeing the model with his hair up, and Lance hasn’t looked _really_ closely until now.

Keith’s features aren’t delicate, but he isn’t exactly as masculine as someone like Shiro. It takes Lance a few tries to shape the planes of Keith’s face on paper. The model’s jawline is more angular than Lance first assumed, when it was still slightly obscured by locks of black hair. Lance finds the eyes and eyebrows surprisingly easy to pencil in; he suspects it’s because he stares at them the most. Next is the slope of Keith’s nose, then the gentle frown of his mouth, then the curve of his ears.

Realism isn’t Lance’s forte, and he hopes that he’ll be as good as Hunk one day, with enough practice. He doesn’t have the same attentive eye for detail when it’s already a miracle that he can sit still long enough to finish drawing anything. But Lance draws what he sees: the slight squint of discomfort from the bright lights becomes an intentional, defiant scowl; the messy hair becomes an inky frame that affectionately caresses its owner’s cheekbones and neck; the shine in dark eyes becomes the gleam of distant stars reflected on the surface of tidepools. The portrait is messy and vibrant and very _Lance_ , so he feels proud when Hunk gives him a cheery thumbs-up, and when Coran quietly compliments his work.

At the end of class, when everyone’s portraits are displayed at the front of the room, Lance’s heart beats faster when he sees Keith looking slightly impressed by the one he drew.

 

* * *

 

The end of the term arrives too quickly. Lance wishes he’s braver; despite the encouragement (Hunk) or teasing (Pidge) from his friends, he doesn’t tell Keith how he feels. It started as a visceral attraction towards the model’s beautiful looks, but after chatting with Keith over the past few months, Lance discovers that he genuinely cares about the grumpy man.

Keith goes to the same school and is a photographer; Lance learned about this when Keith showed him the display case with his photos in it during a break. Keith orders black coffee because it’s cheap, but he actually likes cappuccinos the best; Lance learned this when he ran into Keith at Timmies again a few weeks ago, where he offered to share his gift card because it was almost out of money anyway. Keith drives a bright red sportbike instead of a car; Lance learned this when the asshole deliberately drenched him by driving through a nearby puddle one rainy day. Keith’s laugh is dorky and embarrassing and he snorts _really loudly_ ; Lance learned this when Pidge and Hunk told Keith about his terrible high school flirting, the traitors.

Lance is horribly, painfully in _love_ , and he only figures out how deep it runs on the last day of class. Typical.

“You’re not dying,” Hunk _and_ Pidge say simultaneously the moment Lance groans pitifully and opens his mouth. Pavlov would be proud.

“Seriously Lance, just tell him already before I throw my easel at you,” Pidge grumbles.

“But then I can take the _easel_ way out of this situation,” Lance says cheekily, winking quickly.

(Hunk has to wrestle Pidge back into their seat before they murder Lance.)

“I don’t even know if he’s interested,” Lance says, ignoring Pidge muttering ‘well maybe if you just _asked_ him’. “It’s… it’s just a crush, and I’ll get over it eventually.” He aborts any further attempts at discussing his lack of lovelife, wanting to devote as much attention as he can to the final in-class assignment.

Keith is the model again, dressed in a plain black t-shirt as always; he’s also wearing a red leather jacket that’s a little too small, black skinny jeans, and scuffed biker boots. His hair isn’t tied in a ponytail today, but Lance is secretly happy that the mullet will be immortalized in what might be the last drawing of Keith he’ll ever make.

The hours pass, and Lance adds the finishing touches to his assignment. He’s happy with how much he improved compared to the first full-body extended pose he drew that term, but he’s also disappointed that he might not see Keith as often from now on. Though he can technically hand in his work and leave early, Lance chooses instead to sit quietly and keep admiring Keith until the class is over.

Keith approaches Lance while he’s packing his things. “That’s pretty good,” he says, pointing at his image on the easel. “I actually look nice for once.”

“Thanks,” Lance mumbles, ears turning pink at the praise. _You always look nice_ , his mind adds wistfully, and he has to mentally kick himself to pay attention again.

Keith tilts his head thoughtfully. “Can you send me a picture of that? I left my phone at home today.”

“Y-Yeah, sure!” Lance feels flattered that Keith likes his art enough to desire a copy of it. He grabs his phone to snap a photo, then texts it to the number Keith carefully recites. “I sent it.”

“Thanks.” Keith smiles briefly, and Lance’s heart aches. “I have to head out now, but I’ll see you around.”

“Sounds good,” Lance says as Keith leaves, and it _does_ sound good. This means that Keith (probably) doesn’t hate him. Maybe they can stay friends, at least. He slumps in his chair tiredly, sighing again. “Comfort me,” he whines to Hunk and Pidge.

“Uh… why?” Pidge asks, arching an eyebrow as they put their pencils away.

Lance stares at Pidge incredulously. “What do you mean ‘why’? Because of my mildly bruised heart and unrequited love, duh.”

Now _Pidge_ is the one staring incredulously. “Oh my God,” they say blandly, “you’re an _idiot_.”

“What did I _do_?” Lance asks, crossing his arms indignantly.

“Lance... you just _texted_ him,” Pidge says slowly.

_… Oh._

Hunk nods indulgently. “Yeah man, he gave you his phone number _and_ got yours at the same time without you noticing. I gotta say, Keith is like, way smoother than you are, dude.”

 _Oh!!_ Lance gapes. “Holy shit!” He stares at his phone. “I have Keith’s phone number.” He laughs, face beaming brightly from excitement. “I have _Keith’s_ phone number!”

(“I guess this is technically an easel way out after all," Hunk comments to Pidge as their friend giggles to himself deliriously, "since it was his easel that got him out of this mess.” 

“... Don’t.”)

 

* * *

 

**Sad Hotdog**

+1647XXXXXXX

————— Thu, 04/08/2016 —————

20160804_134523.JPEG

9:02 PM MMS

Thanks Lance.

10:37 PM

hey keith

10:39 PM

will u van GOgh out w me? ;)

10:40 PM

You know that “Gogh” isn’t pronounced like “go”, right?

10:41 PM

And it’s about time you asked.

10:53 PM

fk u mullet

10:55 PM

**Author's Note:**

>  **Additional notes:**  
>   
> 
> 1\. The title is a joke version of the "take the easy way out" idiom, because I can never resist groan-worthy wordplay opportunities.
> 
> 2\. Tim Hortons (aka Timmies) is a Canadian fastfood chain that a lot of people go to for coffee. They sell a lot of baked goods and simple meals too, it’s pretty great. "Double double" means two creams and two sugars.
> 
> 3\. Here’s [an example](https://i.gyazo.com/285b05888af6c4abb440e2d7e123a11e.jpg) of using coloured pencils on burgundy Canson drawing paper that I did a while ago. You can see the giant clipboard thing that I used in class too; we propped those on top of the easels. For clarity’s sake in the fic, I just said Lance clipped things directly to the easels, even though that’s not really true… Sorry for lying.
> 
> 4\. Some doodles that I used to help me through writer’s block while working on this fic. Post also explains the origins of ‘sad hotdog’. http://legendarydesvender.tumblr.com/post/148077483224/
> 
> 5\. Oh hey I found the [original sad hotdog drawing](https://67.media.tumblr.com/5db9eddd4b7a5fdaec6af0d209eaddde/tumblr_inline_oel40tB9JJ1qecgrv_540.png) from ages ago, haha. 
> 
> 6\. Special thanks to Hana145 for correcting some Spanish! ;v;
> 
> Feel free to chat with me on twitter @legdesvender or tumblr @legendarydesvender! Thanks so much for reading!


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